The First Time
by Be3
Summary: Every day we do something for the first time ever, intentionally or not. Sometimes we need reassurance from others... and it comes in very different forms. Rated for swearing and possible ideas. Inevitably and variably OOC. Wilkins is invented by KSC.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I would never dream to own them... They are ACD's.

A/N: A series of drabbles about someone doing something for the first time in their lives. This one is based on FINA. A bit OOC.

I Drove A Cab

It was with no small trepidation I climbed in the groaning vehicle; for though I had the map memorized to a loose cobblestone, _and_ had Wilkins to re-schedule a meeting with NN due to my "indisposition", _and_ was almost sure that no frequenter of the _Diogenes_ would comment on my stealing out of the back door as if I wouldn't dare to enter it in broad daylight, I _still_ harboured some doubts about this scheme of his.

A most unfortunate timing, if you ask me.

But of course, that would never stop my excitable sibling.

- Why could I not have a _reliable_ one?

Like the cab we used to transport foreign dignitaries and State traitors.

- Pshaw, that old thing is known to every self-respectful thief this side of Thames.

He might have narrowed it down for my benefit. Regardless, I would not ask him where he procured this _perfect_ brougham, especially since I were to leave it near the tobacconist's, Oxford Street, eleven sharp.

- If that Patterson is not there in time...

- He will be.

_He better_, I thought glumly. There were so many reasons for the man to not appear there at all; and while I appreciated my brother's sudden attention to my well-being, his loathing of all things bureaucratic was the reason I prayed for him to not be employed for the government -- he got in the way far too often as it were. I dreaded the moment when someone would actually _inform_ him about things that he never really was meant to know and somehow appeared to be abreast of each time we met.

That reminded me...

- And if there is one more apple-cart you forgot to tell me about...

- I can't waste my time eradicating vendors! Do not dawdle, I trained you well enough.

_The nerve of him!_

Once upon a time there happened a shocking anecdote where a certain "cormorant" entertained a soon-to-be-abducted Ambassador. Granted, the resulting treaty was ridiculously profitable for the Empire, but I found it hard to forgive him for exploiting my only weakness so ruthlessly.

- You should probably not refer to that -- incident, brother mine. They say Alcatraz is no Paradise -- despite the weather and the company.

He nodded defeat. _Or hid a smirk._ I wondered just how often had the good Doctor had to choose a nobler explanation when chronicling their insane escapades.

When this particular one is over, I will ask for an unabridged version of the Jefferson Hope case.

- The first will be Moriarty's, naturally, and the second -- the second a safety one.

_Since when did he bother?.._

It was freezing out here, and the mare had all the obstinacy of an ass... perhaps this was the reason why he picked her. A stray dog leapt from under the horse's hooves. An urchin shouted profanities at my poor driving skills. A policeman whistled shrilly somewhere nearby – was I supposed to stop and wait for him? And what was I supposed to do with a drunk lying in the middle of the road? I could not very well pull him aside!

_Avoid pedestrians. Slow down. Forget about the morning._

He sighed. I didn't; I was gradually suffocated by my coat. At least it was shabby enough for him. I must get myself a cloak; it would be mighty awkward to interrupt the Prime Minister with sneezes and coughs.

- Well, I think I will walk from here. No point in you being seen or tortured longer then necessary.

- I can see why you always arrive at the station in the last moment. It is deucedly far!

He quirked a smile at the image of me wandering on my own, Professor's henchmen breathing down my neck, and hopped down.

- That's a sovereign for you, laddie.

- What!

- Business is business, - I said smugly.

He dug out a coin impatiently. A _shilling_. No wonder London is swamped by underpaid and desperate.

- That's "gov", not "laddie" for you, Mister.

A minute passed, and then he shrugged, nodded and set off. I pocketed my fare – by Jove, I will charge Patterson _twice_ the set price after I deposit Watson at Victoria Station and pick him up for a ride to Scotland Yard (brother must have relished the thought of a police Inspector riding in a stolen cab driven by a White Hall official).

Now, to Mortimer Street, and wait.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: it always made me a bit suspicious that Holmes didn't see Insp. Baynes when investigating the murder at Wisteria Lodge… just a bit of silliness here)

I Fought A Magpie

_Holmes laid his hand upon the inspector's shoulder._

_"You will rise high in your profession. You have instinct and intuition," said he._

I confess to never having been one for birdsong. It is all well if you take a constitutional in St James Park in a sweet day of May, admiring the view and digesting a healthy lunch. The Bard himself praised it in a sonnet, or so I was told.

I'd like him to do it while sitting on a tree branch which apparently had at some point developed ridges as no branch should ever do, and trying to discourage a magpie from stealing a watch from his hand – or _with_ his hand, for that matter.

_And_ having an amused observer in the form of an uninvited consultant detective.

He howled with delight as the enraged thing nearly had me down by sheer gravity, but swallowed the rest of it when I considered jumping and suppressing his shameless levity in a most adamant way.

- I say, Inspector, however did you get there? – he managed at last, wiping tears from his eyes. I only hoped he'd got some dust or a twig for his pains; not even my wife at our wedding granted me so open and undivided attention, what with all her aunties criticising her choice and my father toasting her courage.

The magpie dove triumphantly and I dove, too, but though we both missed I suppose I was the unluckier one; the branch wobbled and gave way. My flight was short but educative; I did understand why exactly grown men with some brain in their heads are sometimes found with said brain freely dispersed around them.

I was yanked out of mid-air, and crushed down, nearly disjointing every thinkable bone (and some unthinkable) from its appointed position. There was a great "Whoof" from above, and then the blackness before my eyes proved to be of a cloth, and that cloth of the detective's jacket.

- Here you are, - mumbled he unsteadily, leaning me to the very piece of vegetation. I didn't protest; I could be magnanimous, and it really was the bird's fault. The tree itself p mostly cooperative.

My colleague appeared none the worse for wear, and the only loss we seemed to suffer was the great commotion that no professional would allow anyone to see. That, and my watch now proved uncloseable.

- It appears that we are of an opinion, sir, concerning the household, - said I, trying to salvage our dignities. It would not do to bruise his pride also.

He gave me an annoyed once-over and turned back towards the house.

- A quarter to four.

- I beg your pardon?

- In the _afternoon_, Inspector.

It took me less then five minutes to descend… whereas to ascend I had to ask P. C. Downing for help and spent a good quarter of an hour to reach that treacherous bough.

For a while, nothing stirred. I took advantage of him watching the house to slowly unstick myself from the unyielding wood.

- And where is the Doctor?

- Writing away, I'd wager. One can't complaint of being over-entertained in your picturesque corner of Surrey.

I bristled and quenched a pang of envy. Here was a Londoner; a man of gentry; a scientist – I knew, for young Hopkins of Scotland Yard sent me his monographs occasionally, otherwise I'd no idea how I'd get one. It all was a game to him; deduce who the killer is, and you won. Listlessly, I gathered bark that fell with me, and shoved it under the bramble. He made a note on the flyleaf of some botany book – what plants did he expect to bloom in March?

I fumbled with my flask.

- Brandy?

- You are most generous.

And so we sat in the bushes, until there was a flash of movement in a window in the left wing. A woman peeked out and stood perfectly still, her face a white spot against the darkness of the room.

- Interesting.

- Aye.

I was not sure what to make out of the apparition – most likely, the governess that'd sent the note to Garcia. Was she with him in this affair, or did she lure him to his death? How I longed for a witness! I recalled interrogating a seemingly ordinary tramp all these years ago – the devil haunted this very house. Funny accent – he ought to be prosecuted for language abuse.

There was, of course, Mr Warner the ex-gardener to chat with. I rather doubted the veracity of his statement if he really were involved with the girl as rumour had it.

At least I had the insight to plant P. C. Roundabout at the station. Heaven forbid the man would catch a criminal; I was so looking forward to his leaving our ranks…

Suddenly, she jerked sideways as a stringed puppet and made to grab the curtain, but didn't reach it.

- The devil!

I had no warrant… I literally _allowed_ a crime to be perpetrated…

- We need to divert their attention.

Mr Holmes frantically leafed through his thin booklet, tore a page, scribbled several words on the margin, and paused.

- You a decent aim, Baynes?

- Decent enough.

He smiled coldly, his gaze never leaving the window, and handed me a tin box where the page was now concealed.

- Then would you be so kind as to deliver this little note here?..

As I had no desire to approach the house and risk a quick and painful death, the box went somewhat wide off the mark, though it carried the message well enough. Not two minutes later we were running at top speed, the building behind us fairly aglow and ringing with angry voices. Hugh Gable made Wisteria Lodge look like a primary school every day of the week… Fortunately, Henderson too must have deemed discretion the better part of valour.

- Well, Inspector, it seems the case is drawing itself to a close, - Mr Unofficial Force rubbed his hands gleefully.

- You could have thrown it yourself, - I wheezed accusingly.

- Hah. That I did.

- What did you write?

- Oh, warned them against harming Miss Burnet, nothing else.

As he disappeared at the Bull, I thought I'd set a trap for that cook. It was simply too beautiful a diversion.

It also delayed my dinner... Downing absolutely refused to stay on the premises unless I bring him a _bible _to confront the Evil That Lurks In The Dark; and he nearly unhinged my door some hours later, shouting and brandishing a bloody finger, though he did bring with him a bound mulatto with a magpie's temper.

Nevertheless, a small price it was for finding common ground with Mr Sherlock Holmes.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: this was written for KCS' challenge (Watson's Woes lj community), but then I thought it less angsty then required…and I mixed EMPT and SPEC…and it is dreadfully fluffy… hm. Enjoy?..

'In the last two years of my residence in Baker Street, often was I commended by most various personages for my patience and understanding of various eccentricities of my friend and flatmate, Mr Sherlock Holmes.

I must confess, therefore, to at least one occasion during our association when I utterly failed to keep my composure, and even more unusually, he conceded my point.

I am dreadfully ashamed of losing my temper, seeing as he took the matter to heart. Any satisfaction he might have received – and rightfully so! – from protecting young Miss Helen Stoner and avenging her late sister's murder was ruined by my thoughtless and selfish outburst upon seeing the only keepsake he brought with him. Holmes didn't charge the girl a penny more then the combined sum of our tickets; and however it pains me to write, I will allow I'd rather he took monetary compensation than this wicked relic of deception and crime.

By Heaven, I **wish** I could understand his fascination with all things morbid and vile; and though probably the vigil we kept the other night at Stoke Moran moved me more than I'd like to admit, it does **not** justify my yelling at him or threatening to throw the thing out... We had a row to end all rows… suffice to say, he will endeavour to store his more sinister souvenirs in his room or at any rate out of plain sight, and I will not breath a word of this unless he startles me as badly as he did today.

But, to begin at the beginning.

I woke up pleasantly late, and was a bit surprised to find all windows of our sitting room opened despite it being chilly and wet outside and Holmes already collecting his chemicals and cleaning his tools, to all appearances having just completed a particularly smelly but apparently successful experiment. My companion must have waited for me to come down before ringing for breakfast, so I closed the nearest window and sat down, waiting for him in return.

He spoke without standing up from his worktable, thrusting his hand in my general direction.

- Ah, Watson! What, man, have you seen such excellence before?

I moved my head to look at the cabinet behind me. When I turned again, Sherlock Holmes was standing smiling at me across my study table. I rose to my feet, stared at him for some seconds in utter amazement, and then it appears that...'

The reason for our quarrel granted to the British Museum, Ms Hudson outdid herself with a celebratory dinner, and Holmes remonstrated with me on the merits of scientific approach versus medieval superstitions – a truly unappetising topic.

All in all, his lecture was highly enlightening, if somewhat erratic due to my listless attempts in distraction and his merciless teasing.

- Lovely weather.

- Bravo.

- Any opera you would like to see? A concert?

- You treat?

- No.

- Whyever not?

- I do not feel like treating you to a concert after that – that – territorial misunderstanding. Please notify me beforehand if you need me to keep some – valuable object.

He chuckled in remembrance.

- I say, Cicero would tear his laurel wreath to shreds had he but heard your tirade.

- He probably hasn't been asked if he had seen an adder first thing in the morning.

- Bah, I have little doubt a Roman statesman of his times had to be fairly knowledgeable regarding _local_ snakes...

I thought about those dead whitish eyes, that sickly yellow skin. I've seen the species once in its native habitat during my service days, though I haven't bother to ask how it was called then; he read about it in a book.

_Miss Stoner's tears of gratitude._

_The stench of formaldehyde, still detectable in the air._

_Holmes' face, radiating fatherly pride as he showed me his handiwork._

I speared some tasteless vegetable with my fork. He seemed genuinely troubled when I dropped in my armchair, fumbling for my pulse and asking for a glass of water; I should at least try to be civil.

- Why ask me, anyway?

- I forgot where I put the jar.

- How could you? You'd just secured the lid!

He shrugged nonchalantly; his gaze fell from my accusatory one.

- You – didn't sleep, did you?

- It would rot beyond recognition if I didn't prepare it.

We busied ourselves with whatever it was on our plates.

- Pass the butterdish?

- Here.

He stood up and went to his bedroom, then paused.

- I suppose you don't need a leopard's claw?

- No, but thank you.

I smirked at his affected disappointment – _yes, I have buttered my toast, and no, you couldn't have hidden a claw there already_; he shook his head in defeat and re-seated himself. Impossible man.

- I will tell Ms Hudson, though, that she isn't to dispose of it before you explicitly permit her…

He chortled, and a strange calm settled in my heart.

- Then she probably never will; how can I ever part with my most prized possession?


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: truly OOC, but something I wanted to write anyway. Compliments of the season.

I Forgot To Grieve

It was a rainy Tuesday when I came to see Mr Holmes. In less than two weeks I was to be married; and though the man whom I loved had already addressed the prominent detective on behalf of what I privately regarded as my problem, and mine alone; though he cared for me and would have been deeply hurt that I had sought consolation elsewhere – and wasn't I tortured enough without this wound on my conscience! – I couldn't bring myself to turn to him... Is it cowardness that prevents one from crying for help, or is it shame?

I barely even knew the man I was going to ask that dreaded question; he wasn't sympathetic to my happiness of earlier (already desperate...); and I left my father in my aunt's care.

I despised myself for going to London – but envied, too; I would try my hardest to believe his judgement. There could not be a second consultation.

They were both present. We exchanged pleasantries, and suddenly, I found myself oddly reluctant to speak.

- Would you care for a cup of tea? – asked the kind doctor.

I will remember that tea for the rest of my days.

- Has something happened?

- No, – I managed.

He looked relieved. Mr Holmes' face tensed in apprehension.

- I need an advice.

- You will have one, if only it is in our power to give.

And I heard myself speaking, inevitably and inaccurately, like a child drawing a sea-storm, like a condemned man led to the scaffold. It branded my soul to the very core.

- Do you think it possible that my father, Professor Presbury, could have lost his mind _before_ his experiment with the drug that led to his… – I stumbled, – with that drug?

There was silence. I'd put my cup down before I asked the question, and wished I hadn't; there is something womanlike in rattling china, something I could become angry at.

Instead, there were two grown men watching me in horror.

- Why would you ask? I mean, no, it is unlikely, - ventured the doctor.

- I proof-read his articles; they are not different from what he wrote – clear, consistent, concise, but they are often declined. That was not so before. He wouldn't talk about his… mistake, even to me; he used to share his deepest sorrows with me! – I gulped and willed myself to leave the "and I with him" unsaid; only their knowing looks rendered it useless; I gulped again and closed my eyes, mortified, not even hiding my unstoppable tears.

Someone sighed.

- You don't want an advice from me; you want absolution.

- Holmes…

- You want absolution, – reiterated a resigned voice.

- I want to be John's wife, and bear his children, and to be happy, not to think about what would happen when I grow senile – or they do…

…_An unbearable thought opened my eyes: _I've read an article on Mr Darwin's theory, and while I couldn't quite reconcile myself with it, I see our simian ancestors each time I look at _my father…_

I saw Mr Holmes flinch, and squeezed my eyes shut again. A shadow passed me so quickly, it must have been his recoiling from my thoughtless reaction; I felt slapped.

- Forgive us, - another voice offered sincerely, and a hand touched my shoulder. A handkerchief was left in my lap. I couldn't take it; I told them more than I told my fiancé, and now I longed to be away from here, away from two men I inflicted myself upon. They didn't deserve it.

- You will find it, - said Holmes demurely and royally. I lifted my head, blinking, my grief fleeing in one astonished heartbeat; he was weirdly aged by the flickering fire, staring at the mantelpiece as an ant would stare at an oriental palace. There was a silver cigarette-case directly in his line of vision. – Eventually.

Doctor refilled my cup with already cooled tea and asked something about my upcoming wedding, and then began to entertain me with tales about his practise when again I couldn't utter a single word.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: a writer's block, of sorts. Two students are adapting Doyle's writings to be staged in a university's theatre. Kind of an Author's Note about why I deleted the version of the Sussex Vampires' ending. Meanwhile, if anyone feels up to soften the blow for the poor Jacky, please do!

We Didn't Write A Word.

- So.

- So.

I flopped back down. The grass rustled under my back, tender-beige, a complacent yellowish hue here or a humble greyish one there. It smelt of silt and fire.

- What do your eyelids have to say on the matter?

- They don't.

- Then maybe you'd like to open your eyes and contribute? Some of us are applying ourselves.

I sighed.

- 'S a trifle, and you worry yourself over nothing, - I traced a leaf to its base - soft, edges not cuttingly sharp... stem not triangular - not a _Carex_... must be _Calamagrostis epigeois_ – especially when you looked at the panicle.

- We have to stage a story based on one of this adventures in two months.

- Have you picked one already?

- No, - he sighed, too. A good fellow. He wasn't really annoyed; he knew himself well enough to outwait this "cross-fertilisation-time" and move on to writing.

- It doesn't matter - they're unstageable.

- Why? There are about 200 films, and plays, too...

- Yeah, good versus evil, yada, yada, yada. I will have you read some of Shaw's introductions to his plays someday.

He moved his back against the Maloryesque trunk of a pine and dropped his notebook on the Heminguayish forest floor.

- Nothing's bad about good.

- Don't you see? There's no real conflict besides the crime's motive. It's not some eye-opener. We need to teach people to think.

- What, make this "an exercise in deduction"?

- The thing isn't designed to become popular, is it? Actually, the more unpopular it becomes, the less problems you will have to deal with.

- Thanks.

- You only have to show it one single time.

- I do not want to be known as He-Who-Botched-Up-Sherlock-Holmes for the rest of my career!

Oh, my. An augur would dump the guts from the tripod and enrol as a Grub-street pen-pusher if asked to chart the course of his career. I personally would draw a cross nearer to the mouth of the proverbial harbour.

- Fine.

- So?

- Who must be there, besides Holmes himself?

He reached into his backpack, tossed me an apple and shook a book out.

- Watson.

- From now on, he's Dr. Watson, and Holmes is Mr. Holmes.

- Got it. Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade.

- Wait a sec - Lestrade might get underfoot.

- Isn't it what he usually does?

- No.

Silence. Some vegetative remains crumpled between my fingers - I wasn't paying attention to my environment. Shame.

- Got inspired?

- Gender issues?

He tried to pry the apple from my hand.

- You girls only think about that?

- We do think. Unlike someone I know.

His boot scraped the needles of a WWII-old chunk of concrete.

- I secede.

- What?

- I have other matters to think about.

- Not now!

- Well, there's nothing you can do! The only possible solution to any and all puzzles you will cram into the play is someone dying or turning himself in or trying to kill Holmes - Mr. Holmes - and perishing in the attempt. That's boring. And anticlimactic. Rather like "pull the bobbin, and the latch will go up".

- What about friendship?

- Overplayed. Anyway, it's not in the public domain.

The lighting changed imperceptibly. He peered at the clouds overhead and stood up.

- Time to go.

- I have an umbrella.

- I'll be at my place.

- See you.

I sat on the gnarled roots of the tree where he'd nestled a minute ago, feeling its bark editing my backbone.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: inspired by KCS's "Agreement and Disputation", namely the part when Holmes contemplates the question of "What can't I forgive myself for?", and challenge 006 in Watson's Woes. Sister said it is indecipherable. Well. I also took the liberty of naming the Tregennis brothers.

Summary: a good vicar (and, apparently, an ingenious actor) comes to Mr. Holmes with a startling confession to help him forgive himself. The person who suggested the ruse is no other but…

The First Time The Confessor Confessed.

I knocked at the door, feeling a bit nauseous at the importance of my visit, something I really could do without.

It was opened by Mr. Sherlock Holmes himself, as I knew it would be.

'Ah, Father, do come in. Have you another weird murder for me to investigate?' His voice was a tad harsh, his glare searching.

'Oh, I didn't come for you, Mr. Holmes. I'm after Dr. Watson, if he is available?'

'The doctor – can't receive you now.'

I staggered.

Holmes caught me by the elbow and led to a chair; I fell woodenly.

'Here, here. You're awfully pale; perhaps I really should fetch him – '

'_Fetch_ him?' I gasped.

He nodded, letting go of my arm but pinning me down with his gaze. I closed my eyes in relief, shut them in denial, screwed them up in agony... only to jump, galvanized, when a hand shook my shoulder.

'I would ask you to accept this glass of water. As far as I am aware, it is unpolluted by any other substance.'

So Holmes knew – or at the very least, suspected.

'Watson has just left for a walk. He should be back shortly. You might want to wait – '

'No, Mr. Holmes.'

'I thought not.'

He took the glass back and busied himself with finding the right place on the table to put it.

'I sent him away as soon as I fancied that you would visit us tonight.'

'You're not – afraid,' I bubbled around murky shame drowning my other words.

He shrugged without turning around.

'Not of you, certainly.'

'I killed people,' I remarked stupidly. The notion didn't sit well with my self-esteem.

'You did. But was it your fault, Father?'

He still refused to look me in the eye. I remembered my duty – it was my vocation, and now that I most probably lost everything, I saw what I had to do with amazing clarity.

'Yes.'

He whirled around, sending the table to the floor with all the china and glassware breaking in one disunited burst. The candle – where was the lamp I'd seen? surely he didn't use the lamp – rolled across the floor, smoky flame spinning, and came to a halt near the doormat. He kicked it into the fireplace. I thought for the first time that I wouldn't leave this house alive, and strangely, I felt at peace. His face was wild with self-blame that was rightly mine, a vein on his brow jutting out even more in the embers' uneven glow.

'Should I take you to the police, then?' He shouted. 'I have already let one criminal get away today; why would I extend the courtesy?'

'You would do yourself a disservice, were you to forgive me easily.'

He stomped his foot upon a guiltless teaspoon – assumingly guiltless.

'What if I wish to do so?'

I sat unmoved. He scuffled at the smudge on the worn plait (the spot only grew in size), shaking, hands a-waving and spittle a-flying.

'You come here to taunt me, Father, to mock me? Me, who could prevent a death – '

'You couldn't,' I uttered. 'Mortimer Tregennis would have died anyway.'

'Than what do you want of me?'

He sank to the floor, uncaring of the glistening shards.

'I would like you to hear me out and pass your judgment,' I smiled in anticipation of what promised to become my last homily.

He shook his head.

'No; you're a good man, you made a mistake – '

I rose, a new weariness in my bones, matching the one in my heart. There was little sense in talking to him until he composed himself. I went to the window, black but for the oily orange of the hearth and the pinpricks of stars.

Time passed. The doctor would be back soon, unless he meets his untimely end in our fair Cornwall.

'As unlikely as it seems, I actually came here for a _vacation_. To allow my mind a brief respite from the world's cruelty and corruption.'

'Evil is evil,' I intoned. 'And our country is a part of the world.'

'An understatement, no doubt. Please tell me your felonies; I'm sure we shall be able to find suitable punishment.'

I turned away from the unwashed pane.

'There is little of what you haven't guessed already. I am responsible for the killings of Bartholomew Tregennis, Edward Tregennis, and Brenda Tregennis. I can only say that I never intended for them to be my victims; their brother Mortimer was.'

He hummed proudly. I took a minute to marvel at the most famous British detective, picking a splinter with a watchmaker's devotion, smiling a sooty smile. I must have lost my mind, so there was no point in gathering my wits.

'I make no excuse for myself. He planned to use the powder of the Devil's Root – I assume Dr. Sterndale has apprised you of its effects – '

He choked.

'But Mr. Tregennis couldn't trust Dr. Sterndale's word, and he – he – '

'Used you as his laboratory rat,' supplied Holmes unmercifully.

I bit my lip in shame.

'It is a common method in researching an unknown substance,' he stared in the distance.

'I only got a whiff. The door was locked, I had to break the window – '

'It must have been an ordeal for you,' he noted heartily.

'It was. I – I couldn't let it happen to anybody else, you know? I don't know how he saw through my ruse; somehow he did, and arranged for others to take his place.'

'It occurred to me that his escape was a narrow one, indeed.'

'I would never harm Brenda, I swear on everything I hold – held – ' I stumbled.

He glowered at the splinter, sucking his finger like a toddler.

'I thought about coming to you then, but Sterndale swore to avenge her death, and I – freaked out.'

'I see.'

He glanced at the clock.

'Sterndale painted the drug in the blackest of paints. I can't blame you for your actions.'

'I should have remitted his offence,' I whispered contritely.

'You should. Instead, I am remitting yours. Rise, Father, and go to your children; for you have known compassion. I will tell not a word.'

I hid my face and went away, out in the cold night, where a good friend waited for me to report my latest - and most bizarre – attempt at saving a man's soul. Dr. Watson was a cunning one, to hatch such a scheme; but his designs were only for the good. My heart was light for leaving Mr. Holmes in his capable hands.


	7. Chapter 7

The First Time He Lost The Game.

A/N: Just a silly bit. There was a challenge at the Create-a-character forum (Elementary My Dear Reader forums here at ff), but I got diverted from the purpose... Look up the thread - it is fun!

Warnings: Vengeful!Watson

Disclaimer: not even the challenge is my. Poor, poor me.

'Watson? How would you describe our prey?'

We squatted behind crates of fish gone bad. Pale cloud-shaped blobs of shadow crossed beer-like rivulets of melt water. Now and then, a chilling gale lifted the ubiquitous odor I hoped to stop registering in an hour or so, depending on when my nose would be congested up to the task. A spring-cleaning day, weather-scale.

The man whose trail Holmes'd tracked to the docks, existed for me as a hazy combination of a newspaper clip, a stab of a candle and a book of matches. There was also a vial Holmes snatched from me before I could uncork it.

'He reads _Times_.'

'How can you tell?' Holmes grumbled. He had been out in the elements for much longer than I. 'He only happened to have _an advertisement_!'

'And here is where you are wrong. He happened to loseone. Generally speaking, he _might_ read newspapers...'

Holmes growled inaudibly. His fake mustache was dark and bristling from fog, and doubtless reminding him of incomparable rotten tuna.

'Have I told you how ugly you look?'

'Rather forcefully, I daresay. Now, kindly resume your efforts in deduction.'

'He looks for new lodgings.' The advertisement was hard to misinterpret.

'Brilliant,' Holmes proclaimed with feeling.

Time passed. My toes grew numb.

'The candle.'

'He needs light to read.' I bit my lips; Holmes was twitching with impatience.

'The matchbox serves the same purpose,' I added hastily.

'The vial!' A hopeless wail.

'Antimony.'

'What?'

I smiled.

'You specifically chose this godawful place so that I would not detect the lack of the garlic scent of arsenic. You miser, have you not enough arsenic to poison everybody in Baker Street and their cat?'

'Hopkins borrowed all of it. They finally began experimenting down at the Yard.' He was vexed. Served him right. 'Why did you get along then, o my traitorous friend?'

'Revenge,' I stood up and gave him a hand, 'is best served _cold_.'

We trudged home, stiff and dirty after ambushing each other to honor the tradition…

'By the way, Holmes.'

'Oh, just go and say it already!'

'April Fool.'


End file.
